


The Tango Just For Two

by boasamishipper



Series: i'd like for you and i to go romancing [1]
Category: Top Gun (1986)
Genre: 1990s, Bars and Pubs, Bets & Wagers, Established Relationship, Flirting, Flying, Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Motorcycles, Pillow Talk, Post-Canon, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Tension, Shirtless, Shower Sex, Singing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-12-07 19:42:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20981327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boasamishipper/pseuds/boasamishipper
Summary: Maverick and Iceman have a sex embargo.





	The Tango Just For Two

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thecarlysutra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecarlysutra/gifts).

> for carly, who just posted her 70th Top Gun fic AND her 400th fic overall on AO3 today. congratulations on the milestone. <3

As far as arguments go, it doesn’t exactly start out as an exciting one. Maverick had spent half the night drinking at the O Club with some friends from his old squadron, and Ice had gotten mad because Maverick hadn’t called or invited him along and ended up coming home drunk, and Maverick had called him a killjoy, and that had led to an argument that lasted for over an hour before Ice had banished Maverick to the living room for the night.

Their fight lasts for most of the next day, but by that evening both of their tempers have cooled. Maverick apologizes for forgetting to call and Ice apologizes for snapping at him. That night, they eat dinner together, and afterwards, when Maverick goes in for a kiss, Ice dodges him.

“You know, I’m still a little mad at you.” There’s a mischievous gleam in his eyes, and that makes Maverick nervous. “I don’t think I should let you back into my good graces so easily.”

“Oh really.”

“Yeah.” Ice smirks. “In fact, I think there should be some groveling on your behalf before I officially forgive you.”

Maverick raises his eyebrows. “You were just as much in the wrong as me,” he says. “Maybe you ought to be the one groveling.”

“No way, I did my part.”

“What, by cooking dinner?”

“Damn straight.” Ice grins. “And until your part is done, we ought to put this on hold.”

There’s a challenge being thrown at his feet, and Maverick has never been one to back away from a challenge. “Maybe,” he agrees. “But only until you grovel your way back into _ my _ good graces.”

“Sure.” Ice does not look convinced, but he offers up a smile anyway, the one that’s all shining teeth and the promise of trouble. “So, Mitchell…” He sticks out his hand. “Do we have a deal?”

Maverick takes it. “Yeah, Kazansky,” he says. “You’re goddamn right we do.”

* * *

This shouldn’t be a problem. He’s sure that he can last a lot longer than Ice can in a sex embargo — even if their relationship with each other (from friends with benefits to — well, whatever it is now, dating) has included sex longer than it hasn’t, and he really likes having sex with Ice. A lot.

Whatever. It’ll be fine. He can do this.

He’s one hundred percent sure of that until he stops by for dinner after work the next day and sees Ice outside washing his car. He’s wearing nothing but a wifebeater and an old pair of jeans, and his hair is damp with sweat, and when he takes a break for a beer, he uses the front of his shirt to twist off the cap, revealing a tantalizing hint of honey-tanned, toned stomach before tilting the bottle to his lips, and—

Maverick has to excuse himself.

* * *

Fine. So Ice wants to play it that way. He can do that too.

* * *

Maverick insists on driving Ice home from work on Tuesday, and when Ice arrives in the parking lot, Maverick takes great pleasure in watching his face heat up. He’s wearing his nicest (and tightest) pair of jeans, the ones that Ice likes because they accentuate the curve of his ass, and his hair’s slicked back, and his leather jacket and motorcycle boots are polished to a shine. He looks like he could be one of the guys from _ Rebel Without a Cause _ — which definitely works in his favor since he knows James Dean was one of Ice’s first crushes — and he grins. “Hey, Ice,” he says. He pats the seat. “Ready to go?”

It takes a few seconds for the comment to register, but Ice is indeed ready to go. They’re not able to talk much, but Ice hangs on tight, and Maverick is sure that he’ll win once they get to his house.

He keeps the conversation going once they reach their destination, light and easy and flirty, still sitting on the bike. Ice has to tear his eyes away from Maverick’s mouth at least five separate times. One time he completely loses track of what he’s saying.

“So.” Maverick folds his arms over his chest, smirking. “You want to hang out tonight?”

Ice seems to return to himself all at once, and he narrows his eyes. “Sure,” he says. “Let’s go out. Want to go to the O Club?”

_Oh shit._ “Sure,” he answers, praying that he’s not in over his head. “That sounds like a _ great _ idea.”

* * *

It’s a terrible idea.

The O Club started having karaoke nights every other Tuesday several months back, and Ice had always scoffed at the drunk girls or cocky pilots that would go up and try to sing, claimed he could do much better. But he’d never actually gone up to prove otherwise before. Not until now.

Ice takes his spot in front of the microphone, and Maverick swallows hard from his seat at the bar. His hair is mussed like he’d been having wild sex all night long, and the top two buttons of the shirt he’s wearing have been unbuttoned and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, showing off the muscles in his arms. Maverick isn’t the only one in the room eyeing Ice up, and he forces himself to stay strong. He can do this. He can do this.

And then Ice opens his mouth and sings.

His voice is like sex on the floor, a little rough, smooth like top-shelf whiskey, promising nothing and everything. It’s heat and desire and all the passion in the world, and the sound — and the sight of him smirking into the microphone like he knows exactly how the world is going to end — is enough to send Maverick’s dick into orbit.

What’s worse is that Ice decides one song isn’t enough, and stays up there for the next three songs. Maverick spends the entirety of that time at the bar, clutching the counter with a white-knuckled grip and drinking cold water, trying to ignore how tight his pants feel.

Eventually, Ice leaves the microphone to a wave of whoops and applause, and dodges a crowd of admiring women on his way to the bar. He takes a seat next to Maverick, leaning into his space with his fingers dancing on the rim of Maverick’s glass. “So,” he says with a smirk, keeping his voice low. “What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?”

Maverick holds onto his willpower by the skin of his teeth. “Enjoying myself,” he says. “Relaxing.”

“Hmm.” Ice’s hand brushes Maverick’s arm, and Maverick almost jumps out of his skin. “Funny, you don’t look that relaxed. Maybe we should head out.”

Thank fuck. “Yeah,” he says, thankful for the excuse but not about to give in. “I think I’ll head home. Take a long shower and go to bed.” Ice flushes, and Maverick grins. “See you tomorrow?”

“Right,” Ice agrees. His eyes don’t leave Maverick’s for even a second. “Tomorrow.”

* * *

The next day, Carole calls him on his lunch break, and they spend a good while chatting and laughing about nothing and everything before she asks, _ “So, is there anything new with you and Iceman?” _

“No,” Maverick says automatically. Then, “Well. Maybe.” His gaze flickers up to make sure his office door is locked and that there’s nobody in the hall. “I…might need some advice. But you have to promise not to laugh. Okay?”

_ “This I have to hear,” _ Carole says, and he can hear the grin in her voice. _ “Spill.” _

“We’re kind of, uh, having a sex embargo,” Maverick tells her, and tries not to flush when Carole starts giggling into the line. “We had this argument a few days back — anyways, long story short, we made up but we didn’t really make up, because he was joking about wanting a real apology before we had sex, and now we’re having a contest to see which one of us, uh…breaks first.”

_ “I see.” _ Carole sounds like she’s trying really, really hard not to laugh. _ “Who’s winning?” _

Maverick flushes. “Well. Uh. Ice is better at this than me, but I’m still going to win. I just need some help with the, uh, the details.”

_ “Pete,” _ Carole says, _ “are you seriously asking me to help you seduce your boyfriend when you could just be the bigger person and apologize to him? I mean, you two could be having sex _ right now.”

“Trust me, I know. And yes. Please.”

Carole sighs, but Maverick knows that she’s not really annoyed. _ “Alright,” _ she says, and he pictures her grinning mischievously on the other line, a thousand miles away. _ “Let’s see what I can do.” _

* * *

Maverick doesn’t really see the point in stretching so much — it makes him feel like he’s Viper’s age and twice as out of shape — but Carole had assured him it would work. He feels a little stupid, but that afternoon in the command locker room, he stretches out his arms, his back, his legs. And Ice, who’s changing nearby, keeps looking over at him. When he speaks, the plaintive note in his voice is poorly disguised. “What are you doing?”

“Stretching,” Maverick says, and makes a mental note to buy Carole something nice. “You don’t want me to pull a muscle, do you?”

Ice looks up at him three times over the next two minutes. By the fourth time, his eyes have glazed over.

“Do you need help with something?” Maverick asks, not even trying to hide his smugness.

“No.” Ice closes his locker door with more force than strictly necessary. “I’m good.”

* * *

Three days pass without incident. Then he and Ice have dinner and watch a movie, and Ice (who normally eats healthy and rags on Maverick for not doing the same) brings chocolate-covered strawberries as a snack. The look of bliss on his face as he eats them one by one is unfairly arousing, and it makes Maverick squirm.

When he’s done, he licks his fingers. One by one. Slowly. 

Maverick wants to die.

* * *

_ “No, it’s not enough to be naked,” _ Carole says. _ “You have to make him watch you take your clothes off. There’s a difference.” _

* * *

Alright, this plan is foolproof. Sure, he didn’t _ have _ to stand in the rain for a full five minutes before ringing Ice’s doorbell, but it’s not a cold rain, and he’s had worse. And it’ll all be worth it when he wins this bet.

Ice doesn’t notice anything out of the ordinary at first; he yanks Maverick inside and starts berating him about what the hell he’d been doing walking outside in the rain, but then his words die on his tongue as Maverick pulls off the shirt he’s wearing.

(“Layers,” Carole had advised. “Layers will do it for sure.”)

“I’ve got some spare clothes here, right?” Maverick’s tone is so casual and nonchalant that he should have won an Oscar for it, and he hooks his fingers underneath the edge of the white undershirt he’s wearing. “Can you grab me a towel, Ice?”

“What?” Ice’s voice is an octave lower than usual as he tears his eyes away from Maverick’s chest. He swallows hard.

“Can you get me a towel?” Maverick repeats. He pulls his shirt over his head as slowly as possible, and he raises his eyebrows.

Ice just stares at him, and for the briefest moment, Maverick thinks he’s won. He’s _ sure _ that Ice is about to jump him. But then Ice steps back and grins, and in the blink of an eye Maverick goes from triumphant to extremely nervous.

“Sure,” Ice says. “Sure, Mav. I’ll get you a towel.”

He leaves the room and comes back with a towel and another shirt for Maverick to change into, and starts talking about work and where Maverick wants to order dinner, like they weren’t just an inch away from tearing each others’ clothes off.

Maverick starts to wonder if he’s in over his head.

* * *

They order Chinese takeout, and Ice won’t stop touching him. Just tiny, barely-there touches that are driving Maverick out of his mind. His fingers brushing over Maverick’s shoulder as he walks by. His hand briefly resting on Maverick’s knee when he leans over to get a napkin. A playful tap on the back of his neck when he isn’t expecting it. Forget his clothes, he’s damn near ready to crawl out of his _ skin. _

When Ice smirks at him around a spoonful of egg drop soup, Maverick nearly loses it. He’s about one inch away from throwing Ice onto the table so he can fuck him right in the middle of all their food, but he digs his fingernails into his leg until his thigh goes numb in a last-ditch effort to keep himself in control. He will not lose this bet. He will _ not. _

“Thanks for dinner,” he says once all the dishes are washed and dried and the leftover containers are in the fridge. Thank God his voice stays in the same octave throughout the whole sentence. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Ice grins. “You can count on it.”

* * *

“I swear to God I’m not going to be able to last much longer, Carole. I need a new plan.”

_ “Are you serious?” _ He can practically see Carole throw her hands up in the air in exasperation. _ “Pete, you could be having sex with him right now!” _

“Don’t tell me you and Goose wouldn’t have tried something like this,” Maverick retorts, and then wrinkles his nose. “Ah. Really. Please don’t tell me. Just help me, Carole. Please. I’ll make it worth your while.”

Carole sighs. _ “The things I do for you, honey,” _ she says. He hears her walk over to her bed and flop down, the mattress springs squeaking. _ “Alright. This one will work. Just try not to break any walls when you finally give in.” _

“No promises.”

* * *

By the end of the week, Maverick’s got it all planned out. He’s going to invite Ice to his house after work today under the pretense of watching the game, and lure him into the bedroom with a trail of rose petals, where he’ll find Maverick lying on the bed wearing nothing but his birthday suit. Maybe it’s cheating to get naked, but he’s running out of ideas here. And sanity.

Since it’s Friday, it’s his and Ice’s turn to take up the kids for the afternoon hop, and everything goes to shit the second they’re over the canyon. Jazz and Spitfire have it in their heads that they’re going to be Top Gun at the cost of anything else, and when they come around to try and get a radar lock on Maverick, they cut off Ice, who ends up accidentally flying through their jetwash.

The whole thing had happened in the span of thirty seconds, and when he sees Ice’s plane spiralling into the canyon and hears one of his students yelling over the comms _ Mayday mayday, Commander Kazansky flew through Jazz’s jetwash, he’s in a flat spin _ everything in his body freezes; his blood, his heart, his breath, his mind screaming _ NO NO NO _ until it’s only a slur of sound. Thankfully Ice manages to get his plane under control and doesn’t have to eject, but the exercise still ends early, and Jazz and Spitfire (both of whom are pale and shaking almost as much as Maverick) get their points stripped.

While Viper and Jester tear Jazz and Spitfire a new asshole for that stunt of theirs, Maverick waits in the command locker room for over an hour — long after all of the other instructors have gone home for the day — until Ice is released from the infirmary. He comes back in his flight suit, pale as a fucking ghost and his hands trembling at his sides and his hair messy for the first time that Maverick can remember, but he’s alive. Thank fuck. Thank everything.

Even years later, Maverick can’t say which of them had moved first, but one second they’re on opposite sides of the room just staring at each other and the next they’re kissing, that kind of kissing that’s deep and breathless and makes everything inside Maverick’s head derail. They’re clinging to each other, their hands everywhere at once, tearing off flight suits and boots and every article of clothing they can reach. Then they’re on the floor in one of the shower stalls, and Maverick’s on his back and Ice is on top of him, his hands in Maverick’s hair, and they’re naked now, somehow, and their hips are grinding together. Ice is pressing a line of kisses down Maverick’s chest, sucking at his skin, and Maverick grabs his shoulder. “Wait,” he manages, sparing a moment to be impressed that he can even speak coherently right now. “I want — turn over. I want to fuck you.”

Ice moans and he kisses Maverick hard, turning them over so Maverick’s on top and can feel every beat of Ice’s heart, alive, alive, alive. Maverick slides inside Ice as easily as breathing, and it’s the best thing he’s ever felt in his life.

* * *

“So,” Maverick says hours later, maybe years. Ice is on top of him again, sprawled on Maverick’s chest, both of them completely sated. They’re going to have to disinfect the stall later, but he can’t bring himself to care right now. “Who won?”

Ice’s eyes close, like he’s thinking about it. He traces the edge of one of Maverick’s dog tags, and shrugs.

Maverick frowns, and then decides, all in all, it’s a pretty good answer.


End file.
